Preoccupation
by CrazyKater
Summary: (1st in a series. Prequel to Predicament) Adam and his best friend spent their youth playing games; he had no reason to believe this day was any different. The indomitable decline of Ross Marquette told from Adam's POV.


It started with thickness in my throat.

It was a familiar feeling, the first hint of easy laughter when you think you're on the receiving end of a shared joke. That's what I thought all this was in the beginning: a joke. Standing in front of Ross Marquette, who happened to be my oldest friend in the world, I believed he was stringing along a couple of old wisecracks to compose a great big one. The first crack was physical; I entered his house without invitation and he pulled his gun on me; the follow up to that one was verbal. I was staring at the barrel of his gun when he accused me of stealing his wife.

At first, I was not worried. Neither of those jokes were new; he'd pulled them before and he'd pull them again. Our rapport was like that, each of us grabbing ahold of the other one's chain just so we could see how hard we could yank the other around. Sometimes it was funny and others it was downright cruel, but we did it anyway. We were close like brothers and we acted as such—sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. So, when I walked into his house and Ross aimed his gun at me, I assumed he was joshing, playing an old familiar game.

Staring at his gun, I was reminded, for the briefest of seconds, that this game my buddy and I had invented years ago was something even now Pa would scold us for. Guns were only to be aimed when you meant business according to Pa—or when you trusted someone enough to allow them to test how quick you could think on your feet if you were Ross and me.

Like I said it was an old game, one which had begun shortly after Ross and I had each been deemed old enough to be entrusted with gun belts and sidearms; it was a game that if discovered in our younger years would have eradicated the same trust which allowed us to carry such weapons. So, even when Ross started spouting clandestine accusations about his wife and me, I didn't know he was serious. I couldn't imagine a world where he would be. I thought it was all part of the game.

It was Delphine who eventually made the reality of the situation, serious and grim, dawn upon me. It was the state of her, the dark bruises marking her face and the terror in her eyes which declared Ross's words and actions, the barrel of his gun pointed at my chest, the furthest things from a game. Her expression said everything I needed to know, even before she began to speak. She said she was sorry; she said Ross had struck her until she gave voice to what he wanted her to say.

Ross was like my brother, Del the closest thing to a sister I'd ever had, but declaring either thing wouldn't change Ross's opinion—of Del or me. I think I knew then our game was over. Ross and I would no longer be allowed to hold up arms against each other and be trusted enough not to shoot. I felt a twinge of sadness then, the slightest hint of disappointment that I quickly ignored. Such feelings weren't conducive to changing our current predicament. They wouldn't help me help Del or Ross or even myself. They wouldn't do a damn thing.

Ross held his gun high and I spoke to him as I advanced. I don't remember what I said to be allowed to get so close to him. Close enough to flip the table over. Close enough to knock the gun from his hand and overpower him.

I tied Ross to a chair, left him for a while to think hard about what he'd done. I was half-hoping he'd come up with a reasonable explanation so he could share it with me and I could somehow understand how things had gotten as bad as they were. I never would get my explanation—at least not from him. When I finally came back into the house he looked and spoke to me as though he didn't know how he came to be where he was. It was the damnedest thing, so odd and infuriating at the same time.

I untied him and left him alone. Like adding salt to his wound, I sent Del to stay at the Ponderosa. This was bound to add to Ross's suspicion about her and I. He was bound to think about her being away from him and closer to me, and thinking about how such a situation had come to be was bound to make him feel worse. But maybe, deep down, that was what I wanted. For him to feel guilty and remorseful. For him to feel the tiniest hint of Del's pain and fear, or a flash of my confusion and anger. I wanted him to come to, to stop messing around and make things right. I wanted him to wake up. It didn't make sense he would raise his hand to hurt Del—or his gun to me in anything other than jest. Given our history, there was no sense to be made from what a thing he had done.

Ross and I were friends from the second we met. I'm not sure what bonded us together so immediately and fiercely. Maybe it was because he was my first real friend outside of my brothers. Maybe it was the fact that we were the same age _exactly_, remnants of the odd kind of wondrous excitement that comes from the unique knowledge that someone else was born on the same day of the same month of the same year as yourself. Maybe it was the fact that we were both one of three siblings, our family structure reflecting one another in almost perfect reverse. Ross was the youngest of his brothers, his Pa the last of his Ma's three husband all of which had left her with a son.

When we were young, Pa used to call Ross my other half, and Ross's Ma used to fondly refer to us as twins. He and I were together more often than we were apart, functioning like appendages. I loved his Ma like she was my own, and, in our tumultuous teen years, Pa came to view and treat Ross as a surrogate son, though there was a different reason for that.

It is strange how one moment can make you think of another. How new sadness can remind you of the deepness of old wounds.

Ross's Pa was killed a year to the day before we lost Marie. It was warm the day we buried her; it snowed the day Ross's father was placed in the ground. An unseasonable kind of storm blew down from the mountains that day, freezing the ground and air, making my skin tingle and burn and transforming my breath into frozen puffs before my face. I remember how terrible it all felt, standing next to Pa and Marie, trying so hard not to fidget or move, for fear of having my movement—a hopeless effort to keep my blood moving and body warm—interpreted as disrespectful.

It was cold day and it was a sad one.

Holding his Ma's hand as she sobbed, Ross didn't move or cry. He stood, ridged and tall, through the service. It was the kind of display people often describe as strong or brave when presented by a boy of that age. But I knew the truth. It wasn't bravery that made Ross look the way he did. It was shock. It was the horrible realization that his Pa was gone forever; he wasn't ever going to come home. I saw the truth in Ross's expressionless face and his glazed eyes and I still think I understood it better than most. I think Pa understood that too, because when the last bit of dirt had been placed upon the grave, Ross let go of his Ma's hand and took off running as fast as he could.

Grasping my shoulder, Pa looked at me, his voice no more than a whisper, "_He shouldn't be alone. Follow him, son." _

There was a sad kindness behind Pa's words. I think we both knew they were more permission to leave than instruction. He didn't need to tell me to go; no one would have been able to stop me from following that boy.

Ross tried to outrun me as we busted through the snow-covered pines, but I was too fast. I remember wishing I was slower. That my legs were shorter and my strides smaller. I didn't want to pass him; I didn't want to run next to him if I wasn't welcome there. I hastened my pace, purposely remaining one or two steps behind.

Eventually, Ross stopped running and stood numbly in place. I lingered a few paces behind, watching and waiting for him to make a move. He didn't turn around for a long time and when he finally did, I saw tears streaking his cheeks.

_"__Does it ever stop hurting?" _he asked. "_Do you ever stop missing the people you lose?"_

_"__Not really," _I said. "_You just get used to not havin' them around."_

He nodded at that. And I know it sounds silly but I felt something change between us. I felt our understanding of one another deepen somehow. With the loss of his father we had something in common we hadn't before. Ross had always had the love of both of his parents and now he only had the love of one.

Silently, we walked back the way we came. I followed him home that day and followed him to school the next. I followed him into trouble and out of it, after girls and ill-thought schemes. I was that boy's shadow for years. I know him like the inside of my hat—sometimes I think I knew him better than Hoss or Joe or even myself. I knew what he was going to do before he even did it; I could predict what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth to speak. I knew his temper, his wicked sense of humor and nearly every one of his faults; I knew what he was capable of. I thought I knew everything worth knowing about Ross.

I was wrong.

Xx

Leaving Del in Hop Sing's company, I returned to Pa. He smiled when he saw me and I felt guilty for bearing news that would chase the joy from his face.

"What's the word, Adam?" he asked. "Did Ross agree to come help with the cattle?"

"No, Pa," I said. "Ross isn't going to be helping us."

"Why not?"

I hesitated, suddenly not wanting to say the reason aloud. The details of the afternoon were weighing heavily upon me; I didn't want to repeat them for fear of making it all feel that much more real.

"Adam?" Pa prompted.

"He pulled a gun on me," I said, the words spilling from my mouth by their own volition.

Pa snorted. "Isn't that part of _the game _the two of you play?" he asked.

"How do you know about that?"

"Son, just because I don't address something that doesn't mean I don't know it takes place." Moving to stand next to me, he grasped the back of my neck fondly and squeezed. "You know," he added, laughter in his tone. "Sometimes I think we might just have Ross to thank for you being so quick to think and apt with your words."

He was in such a jovial mood. I hated to ruin it.

"Ross pulled his gun on me," I said forlornly. "It wasn't a joke or a game; it was a threat. He meant to shoot me. He beat Del, accused her of stepping out on him with someone else."

Pa's horror was made clear by the expression on his face. "Who?"

"Me."

"_You_?"

"He beat her until she owned up to it. I couldn't leave her there. I took her home. I suppose she'll be staying with us for a while."

Eyes widening, Pa's hand fell from my neck. It wasn't until he spoke again that I realized where his thoughts had gone. "You and _Del_?" he asked. "God almighty, son! What possibly came over you to do such a thing? And with your best friend's _wife_, no less."

I frowned, feeling my unease shift to anger. It was the explosive kind; the dangerous kind; the kind of discontent that made everything said in the heat of the moment feel right but would later feel incredibly wrong.

"It isn't true!" I bellowed.

"You said she admitted—"

"Because Ross was _hurting _her! It isn't enough that my best friend aims a gun on me and accuses me of being reprobate, but I have to hear the same from you? I can't believe you think I would... she's like a _sister _to me, Pa! And she's _married_! What kind of man do you think I am?"

Returning his hand to my neck, Pa squeezed. "A good one," he said, his voice deep and soothing. "I'm sorry, son."

My anger left as soon it came. "I don't understand it, Pa," I said. "How could Ross do a thing like that? How could he hit Del and accuse her of something like _that_? Those two are the happiest married people I can think of."

"Sometimes people just change, Adam, and there are no discernible reasons why."

"It's not just that. After it all happened, I talked to him; he didn't know why he hurt her and he didn't remember pulling his gun on me or saying anything that he did."

"Do you think he could have been lying?"

"Maybe," I said, though the idea didn't sound right. I knew Ross too well; he had never been able to tell a lie I didn't to see right through. "Pa, I think I oughta go into the town. Ask around, maybe talk to Doctor Martin, see if he's ever heard of such a thing."

"Adam." Pa shook his head. "I can't spare you. I need you here, helping with the round up. You've done all you can do for now. Let time sort the rest out."

"But—"

"But nothing. I need you here. I even needed Ross here, Now, that's not going to happen and neither is what you're asking. Give it some time, son. There's nothing more you can do that hasn't already been done. Del is safe at the Ponderosa allotting Ross space to consider what kind of man he wants to be."

That should have been the end of it. The conclusion of yet another debate efficiently won by Pa. If I were Hoss or Little Joe, I would have accepted the conclusion of our conversation and returned to work. But I wasn't Hoss or Joe. I was my father's oldest son. Strong, capable, independent, and determined and as such I had a secret weapon in my arsenal to use against Pa in arguments I refused to lose.

"Papa," I whispered. "Please."

Papa was an odd word to come from the mouth of a man of my age. Sometimes it sounded strange to my ear though it never felt wrong to say.

As a child, I had held on to the word longer than most—something I now know but had no concept of at the time. Both my younger brothers had abandoned the term by the time they were eight. I was twelve when I stopped saying it. Save for horrendous situations or sickness, it ceased passing my lips with any kind of regularity. It was something I suspect now saddened Pa. There were so many things he had been unable to shield me from during my early years. For a boy who had been forced to grow up so quickly, it was nice to be able to hold on to the last vestige of childhood for as long as I had.

I stopped calling our father papa when Hoss did. At the time, it didn't seem appropriate for my younger brother to outgrow such a thing before I did, so I discontinued it use—at least in front of others. It became a private kind of thing, a secret of sorts between me and Pa, hidden from an outside misconstruing eye. What my brothers don't know is I called our Pa papa in private until I went off to college. I wasn't until I returned from school as a grown man that I ceased using it fully. It wasn't long after my return when I discovered, by pure accident, the power of uttering the word during an argument with Pa.

I hadn't meant to say it; it had slipped out. Though neither of us dared address it, we couldn't deny it had been said, and I couldn't ignore how it had allowed our disagreement to suddenly shift in my favor. I am ashamed to admit the word is mostly loaded when I use it now—I know what it can accomplish, what it can implore Pa to agree to—though sometimes it still slips for no particular reason, and when it does, it seems to say things to Pa that I'm unable to.

Removing his hand from my neck, Pa waived me away. "Go," he sighed, "before I change my mind."

Xx

My journey to Virginia City took me to the bank, the church, and eventually the doctor. Nothing I was told about Ross was something I expected or I wanted to hear.

He was in fine financial health, even after having been hit hard a year or so back when the black leg was running rampant through the territory, killing everyone's young cattle. He lost a lot during that time; he nearly lost his ranch. Pa and I had tried to help but Ross's pride wouldn't allow him to accept it. And despite his losses, Ross had recovered; his ranch had survived and then thrived. Money did not seem to be on his current list of troubles. Though during my time with him at the bank, Mr. Begley did make some odd comments about Ross acting strange.

Joe, the minister, did not show Begley's restraint. He wouldn't have, though, not with the history between Ross and the church. There had always been somewhat of a tumultuous relationship between the two. Ross's attendance at church prior to his marriage to Del was sporadic as best.

His ma did her best to get his butt on a pew on Sunday mornings when we were in our early teens but nothing she ever threatened or promised was enough to get him there often.

Shortly after losing his pa, his two other brothers had died of fever and Ross had taken to blaming God for his losses.

_"__I don't believe in God," _he had suddenly declared one spring afternoon as we stood, finishing off the bank of Truckee Lake.

We weren't much more than fourteen, our voices still ebbing and cracking unpredictability as they slowly transformed into the deep tenors they would eventually become.

_"__Shhh," _I warned, my eyes set on my little brother who stood, playing in the shallows downstream. "_Don't let Hoss hear you say that. He's liable to tell."_

_"__Ah, I don't care who he tells. The whole world can know for all I care." _

_"__You say that now, but if your ma finds out then you'll be sayin' something else."_

_"__I don't care if she knows. She's the one always carrying on about tellin' the truth."_

_"__I think this is one truth she would prefer not to know."_

_"__I can't believe you." _He grinned. "_Telling me to lie to my own ma like that."_

I rolled my eyes. "_I didn't tell you to lie. I told you to omit."_

_"__Yeah, just like you omitted to your Pa how we snuck in back entrance of the saloon last week."_

Looking at each other, we dissolved into laughter. It was giddy and knowing; the hilarity of boys who had shared the first glimpse of things only made privy to men. We hadn't only managed to sneak into the saloon, we had somehow, miraculously snuck to the upstairs bedrooms and then back out of the building without being seen. The things we had seen, however, would live in the forefront of our pubescent brains for a long while, the first glimpse of what a woman looked like without her clothes.

_"__You better believe in God, Ross,_" I warned lightly as I followed him further upstream. "_With the way your ma and my pa talk, if you don't repent for what you've seen then you're gonna go straight to hell."_

_"__With you right beside me," _Ross quipped.

Casting my fishing line, I shrugged. It was a difficult argument to refute at the time.

_"__Hey, Adam?" _Ross asked. "_Do you believe in God? I mean, really believe."_

_"__I don't know. I've never really thought about it, I guess."_

_"__How could you have never thought about it? You think about everything."_

_"__I do not think about everything."_

_"__You think about more things than me," _Ross countered.

_"__Well, I've never thought much about God."_

_"__Then how do you know if you believe in him or not?"_

Shaking my head, I thought on the question. "_I want there to be a God," _I said finally. "_Because then that way there's a heaven too."_

_"__And a hell?" _Ross asked seriously.

_"__Sure, but I'm more concerned about heaven. If there's no heaven then where do good people go when they die? They have to go someplace, Ross; it has to be better than everything and everybody they left behind."_

Looking at each other, we both knew what I left unsaid. If there was a God and heaven then there was someplace good for my ma, my mama, his pa, and his brothers to spend eternity. And if there was God then there was devil too, and a hell; a place for evildoers to pay permanently for their mistakes.

Fiddling with my fishing rod, I silently prayed to God, asking him to grant me forgiveness for all the wrongdoings Pa remained unaware of and therefore hadn't punished and absolved me of.

Ross didn't seem as concerned. "_Okay, I won't argue about wanting a heaven," _he said matter-of-factly. "_But I still don't believe in God. How can you believe in something who allows the people you love to die? Why would you want worship and give thanks to the very thing who sees fit not to answer your prayers?"_

This was an opinion Ross held on to into adulthood; it was reflected in his weekly absences from church. It wasn't until he began to court Del seriously that his attendance at church improved—something I suspect was due more from a desire to appear acceptable to his impending bride than a sudden change in beliefs. When they were married religion became a bone of contention between the pair. If he and Del we're having trouble it would explain his sudden departure from the church. It would explain his rudeness to Minister Joe when the man showed up uninvited to his house. But there were other things it didn't explain.

Like how Ross seemingly took joy in physically ejecting Minister Joe from his home, or how he beat Del, or how he pulled gun on me. Ross wasn't a violent man. Like me, he knew how to use words properly and effectively to get his point across. The disdain for the church and Minister Joe, I understood; it was the violence I couldn't begin to comprehend.

The Minister said the changes in Ross where the devil's doing. He said his soul was sick. This was a theory I could finally believe—not the devil part but the sickness. Maybe Ross was sick.

This theory took me to Doctor Martin. He said Ross was unbalanced; he said his mind was sick, and he insinuated, if things continued to erode, Ross should be put away someplace where he couldn't hurt anyone or himself. It was a bothersome conversation, one which left me eager to return to my family and yearning to talk to Pa.

Xx

I endured a long, cold ride back to the camp. I could have gone home, checked in on Del and spent the night in the comfort of my own bed, but I couldn't bring myself to. I didn't want to look at or talk to Del. I didn't want to force either of us to pretend we weren't worried, or that things were somehow better than they were.

It was past dark when I finally arrived at the camp.

"Well, lookie here." Smirking, Little Joe stood on the opposite side of campfire as I approached, his eyes darting between Hoss and I. "Our older brother has finally decided to grace us with his ever-_helpful _presence."

Sitting on a horizontal log that had been drug in front of the campfire to serve as a bench, Hoss's attention didn't wain from the plate of food held in his hand. "Let him be, Joe," he grunted, his mouth full.

"Now, why would I want to do that?" Joe asked. The question was posed in good nature, begotten by fondness rather any real resentment. Struggling to grab a hold of my chain, he was yanking it; after all, it was the brotherly thing to do. "Did you have a good day off, brother? Did you think of us, Hoss, me, and Pa as we were working _hard_, sweating and toiling away on the range while you were in town?"

"Joe," Hoss warned evenly. "I said quit."

Hoss appeared thoughtful as he finally looked at me; there was a knowing glint in his blue eyes, slightly sad and anxious. It made me wonder if Pa had shared with him what had prompted my visit to town.

"Did you talk to Pa?" I asked him.

Hoss nodded in return.

"He tell you about Ross and Del?"

Hoss nodded once more.

"What about Ross and Del?" Joe asked quizzically.

"Leave it alone, Joe," Hoss warned again.

"Nah, it's fine," I said. "No use in hiding it from him."

"Hiding _what _from _me_?" Joe demanded. There was an edge in his voice, a sudden fire in his eyes. It was a predictable response from him in moments when he felt purposely excluded, one which I was certain was not exclusive to him.

Didn't all last-born brothers always vie for the attention of their older ones? Didn't they all feel a hint of true resentment when they believed they were being coddled and purposefully excluded from anything their elders might know?

In the moment, I was grateful for the predictability of Joe's discontentment. I may not be able to foresee what Ross's next action would be, but at least with Joe I always would. If I knew Ross like the inside of my hat, then I knew Joe like the back of my hand.

"Del's staying at the Ponderosa," I said, looking at Joe. "She and Ross are havin' trouble. He beat her pretty badly, and he doesn't seem to be acting like himself. So, to answer your earlier question: no, brother, I didn't not have fun in town today."

Mouth agape, Joe nodded. His expression declared he was as taken aback by Ross's actions as I was. "I'm sorry, Adam," he said. "I didn't know."

"I know," I said. "Now you do. It's fine, or it will be. Where's Pa?"

"Talkin' to some fellas in the chow line," Hoss said, jetting his head at the other side of the camp.

Xx

Though the chow line was still active, Pa was nowhere to be seen. This was not a worry; squinting into the night, I assessed our surroundings before I decided upon the direction I was headed.

I found Pa just outside the outskirts of camp. He was alone, just I knew he would be. Sitting on another fallen tree which had been moved to this place long ago and by someone other than him, he held a steaming mug in his hand. I was sure it was coffee laced with a few pulls of something dark and strong. Something to soothe the stiffness of his aging body and allow him to sleep happily on hard earth. He was getting older—we all were, I suppose. This was a sad thought; one I couldn't deny any more than I could prevent myself from thinking it.

Someday he would no longer be able to lead our yearly round up and it would be a task delegated to one of his sons. I was no more eager for that day to come than I was for another I had only recently begun dwelling upon. It was an unavoidable development, one to be both anticipated and dreaded.

Someday I knew Pa would be too old to carry the load he did now; time would pass and he would need help running the ranch and that would be the time for his sons to step up. To take more ownership over the tasks of the land, maintain and grow upon what Pa had built. I was certain Hoss and Joe would step up when the time came, just as I was certain I would not.

Someday I would leave this place, Pa, my brothers, and the land. I would set out and wander the world until I found something my heart and soul wanted to claim as my own. There was no avoiding it; there was no fighting how some things were destined to be.

"Adam," Pa greeted, his voice traveling through the dwindling gap between us. I was still a fair distance away, but Pa noted my presence despite the dark. He always had an uncanny ability to identify me from afar.

I smiled. "Pa."

Coming to a stop next the fallen tree, I sat beside my father. He wrapped his arm around me, his hand lingering on my shoulder as he pulled me close. I leaned into him, allowing his warmth and strength to momentarily soothe my worry. His palm settled flat in-between my shoulder blades, and neither of us spoke for a long time.

"Do you know what this reminds me of?" he asked eventually, his dark eyes locked on the stars above us.

"Headin' west," I said.

There had always been something about camping out that made Pa nostalgic, nights like this reminding him of another time. A time when we were both so much younger, when the future seemed so dangerous and volatile yet so open to extraordinary possibility. He and I had been alone back then, until Mama and then Hoss had come along. Then it had been the four of us for a while, and Pa and I had enjoyed peaceful nights such as this one, sitting together and staring up at the stars.

"Heading west," he repeated, the words escaping on a longing exhale. "Those were simpler days."

"Those were harder days," I corrected.

"They harder and they were simpler."

"They were dangerous. Variable. You woke each day not knowing what would come, what challenges or sadness they would bring."

"It was a wonderful journey, despite its pains and complications."

"It was something."

Pa grinned at me and I knew there would be no stopping him from romanticizing his memories of the past. For a moment, I wondered why I wanted to. There had been so much bad back then, what was the harm in recalling the good?

"Adam, are you telling me that you, my son who thirsts for wandering and adventure, does not want to remember our previous travels fondly?"

"I am plenty fond of that time, Pa," I assured.

"What was your favorite part?"

I didn't hesitate; I never did. "Finding Mama."

"I knew you would say that."

"That's because it's what I always say," I laughed.

"That's how I knew," he admitted. "She would be proud of you, you know; she would be thrilled by the man you've become." He held me a bit tighter. "I'm proud of you too."

He had said the words before and he would say them again, though that did not minimize how they made me feel. My brothers and I were fortunate we had been born to such a man. He may have been hard on us from time to time but we had what I know some men spend their lives longing for from their fathers: his support, acceptance, and unconditional love.

Sitting next to Pa, I thought about Ross, what he did and didn't have and what he had done to Del. I couldn't help wondering if things would have turned out different had his pa lived.

"What did you glean about Ross in town?" Pa asked as though he had been sharing my thoughts.

"I talked to Mister Begley at the bank, Ross isn't under any financial strain."

"Begley shared that with you? Does that man not know the meaning of discretion where a man's privacy is concerned?"

"He didn't want to share the details at first. I may have angled it out of him. Ross's accounts have been in good standing since he changed his brand awhile back." I shook my head. "He always did insist that the symbol of a silver dollar would bring him luck. I guess he was right."

"Luck always has a way of running out," Pa mused. "A man usually pays for luck in ways he's not truly aware of at the time."

"I talked to Minister Joe and Doc Martin," I said flatly. "Joe thinks the devil's imbedded himself into Ross's soul and is intent on dragging him to hell, and Doc thinks Ross has been driven insane."

"Neither of those are favorable options."

"They are not."

"What do you think?"

I sighed heartily, suddenly feeling as though I was carrying the weight of the world on my back. "I think I don't know which option is worse, or more reasonable. After today I think I'm hoping you're more right than they are."

Pa cast me a curious look.

"I hope it's one of those instances where time is a friend and people just change," I said.

"That is not such a favorable option either, son," Pa reminded. "What if Ross has changed? What if he's decided to remain with violent hand towards Del?"

"I don't know."

I didn't want to think about it; I was still hoping the instance of Ross hurting Del would eventually become a solitary mistake. Even so, there were other things to be concerned about, like Ross's change in personality and habits. Del had said Ross had beat her; Minister Joe had said Ross quit going to church; and even Begley had noticed a difference in Ross's demeanor. How had I missed these things? How hadn't I known anything was wrong?

"Give it time, Adam."

Pa's words reminded me of his wisdom and strength. What was happening with Ross could never happen to my brothers or me. Pa would never allow us to become so lost.

"Pa?"

"Yes."

"Will you talk to Ross? I think he'd listen to what you had to say. Can you tell him whatever it is you would tell me if you found out I'd been inappropriate with my wife?"

"Of course," Pa said. "It might be a few days before I can slip away, but I'll talk to him."

Pulling away from him, I stood. Shoving my hands in my coat pockets, I fought a shiver that was threatening to run the full length of my body. The night air suddenly felt much colder without his warmth.

"I'll leave you to your stars," I said. "Please don't stay out here alone for too long. I worry, you know."

"Ah," he groaned, waiving me away. "I am plenty capable of taking care of myself."

I nodded in farewell and began walking back to camp.

"Adam."

Turning around, I walked backwards for a few paces, awaiting Pa's next words.

"I love you," he said. "I really am very proud of the man you are."

Sometimes Pa was determined to be a sentimental old man, sparse occasions which I love him deeply for. The words meant more to me than any grown man is willing to admit, though I won't revise my response.

"I adore you, Papa. If I'm someone to be proud of then I hope you realize the only reason for that is you."

Xx

I didn't sleep well that night or the few that came after. My thoughts were too burdened by worry for Ross. I couldn't stop thinking about what Minister Joe and Doc had said. I couldn't let go of the idea either of them could be right. The possibilities of such a thing had embedded themselves into my mind to torture me as slept.

My dreams were haunting and turbulent. I dreamt of Ross and Del, of him beating her to death and then me killing him for what had been done.

I dreamed of our youth, of me chasing him through those snow-covered pines. Sometimes I never caught him. Others, when he finally stopped running, he stood his back toward me, and when he turned around, I discovered he had become someone else. He was stranger, complete with a different face and completion.

I dreamed of him and I fishing the day he asked me if I believed in God, only instead of asking the question, he cackled and shrieked loudly, his unstable laughter gargled and echoing as he drowned me in the waters of the river.

I dreamed of the game we used to play, of the end of his gun which was always so expertly pointed at my chest. Only in the dream, the bullets which escaped its barrel, burrowing their way deep into my body, were the furthest thing from a game.

And then there another dream, one of which no sense could be gleaned.

I dreamed of a blue-eyed demon in the desert. Though he looked like a man, I knew he wasn't. His eyes gleamed with evil; his laughter was deep and grinding; I immediately saw him for what he was. He was neither of the earth nor the heavens. He was something born from the depths of hell.

_"__You don't know it now, but someday you will come to me,"_ the demon said. "_You don't understand the evil that has overcome your friend now, but, believe me, you will. And when you finally do, you will enter the desert and you will beg for my help." _

I woke with a gasp.

Looking around the camp in the early light of dawn, I was relieved to have emerged from the dream when I did. My stomach was turning wildly, my body shaking slightly beneath my clothes and blanket. Oddly, it made me think of Ross and what Minister Joe had said.

Was the devil making Ross's soul sick? Imploring him to behave badly and become violent towards those he loved the most? It was a foolish notion; a thought born from nothing more than a bothersome dream. There was no demon in the desert. If Ross was sick then the devil hadn't made him that way—of that I was certain.

Xx

The days that came after weren't much better than the first. I stayed where I was needed and helped with the round up. The days were long and hard and mostly spent on the back of my horse. They never said anything outright, but I suspect my family was aware of my troubled slumber, because each night Hoss and Joe's bedrolls kept getting closer and closer to my own.

Pa made a point of silently slipping a bit of something dark and strong into my coffee in the evenings, something to help me sleep better than I was. He abandoned his stargazing and took to covertly watching me instead. While it shames me a bit to admit, I felt better under his protective gaze. It soothed me in a way I thought I had outgrown.

Sheriff Coffee brought word that a stage had been robbed and a few men killed; he advised us to keep an eye for odd travelers.

Pa followed through on his word to speak to Ross. He snuck way and spent the afternoon offering some fatherly advice. When he returned, he said Ross appeared guilty and remorseful over what he had done to Del. He seemed to have seen the error of his ways and was taking time to repent and better himself. And while he was licking his wounds, my friend had decided to do something worthwhile with his time. There was a small group of men in his company, who he told Pa were hands he had hired to help with the Silver Dollar's roundup.

I was eased by this knowledge—all-too-eager to interpret the news as a sign of better things to come. Hard work always did have a way of distracting a man's mind and easing his heart and soul. Still, my dreams about Ross lingered and my worry grew until I could no longer contain it.

"Do you believe in God?" I asked Pa one afternoon as we sat on the back of our horses.

It seemed like such a frivolous question once it had been asked, rhetorical and inane. Of course, I knew Pa believed in God. He was the one who had taught me to pray; he was the one who had read the Bible to me when I was young; and he was the one who led us all to church on most Sundays when we were young and sporadically now that we were older. He wasn't the godliest of men, but he did his best and he had taught my brothers and I do our best too. His belief was indubitable; the question I had posed him, however, was not.

I'm not certain why I asked it in the first place, embarking on a conversation to either prove or disprove what I had already decided I didn't believe. Minister Joe was wrong; the devil was not in Ross. If anyone was destined to be right then it was Doc Martin. Ross was sick or worse: crazy. But I had dreams which had begun to suggest otherwise; they weighed on my heart and mind and seemed intent on convincing me of the possibility of an implausible truth.

Turning his saddle, Pa looked at me, his face contorting in an odd expression. It took me a moment to realize what it was and then another to accept that after all these years, and with as well as he knew me, I could say something that took him by genuine surprise.

"You and God having a bout, son?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I don't think so."

"That doesn't mean no or yes."

"I don't think Ross believes in God," I sighed, my eyes drifting to the landscape.

"What makes you say a thing like that?"

"He told me he didn't."

"When?"

"When we were fourteen."

"When you were fourteen," Pa laughed. "Well, son, a great deal of time has passed between now and then. Maybe he's changed his mind."

"What if he hasn't?"

"Adam."

It was Pa's tone, deep, gentle and reassuring, that invited me to look at him, and when I did, I saw concern shining in his dark eyes.

"What is this really about?" he pressed.

I had no other option but to answer honestly. "I dream about Ross and Del and the devil too, I think."

"Is this why you've been so restless at night?"

"I suppose," I admitted quietly.

"Bad dreams are just your thoughts running rampant. They aren't real, you know that, and they can't come true."

Still, my nagging feeling remained. "But what if they can?" I asked. "What if Minister Joe is right? What if the devil is inside of Ross and that's what caused him to change? How do you save someone from the devil, Pa? How to do save somebody from themselves?"

"The devil is in Ross Marquette," Pa repeated in disbelief. "I cannot believe _you_, the most educated of all my sons, would allow yourself to truly think that."

"Why not?" I countered. "Sin is sin and who do we blame it for? If we give thanks to God for the good then how can we not give the devil the credit for the bad? Pa, if you believe in God then you have no choice but to believe in the devil too. If Ross doesn't believe in God how could he know if the devil has a hold on him? And how can he fight that hold if he doesn't believe it exists?"

"It is your nightmares that are making you tortured by such a thing?"

"I do _not_ have nightmares," I snorted, oddly offended by the very notion. I wasn't a child; I was a grown man and as such did not suffer from juvenile unpleasantries. "Just… bad dreams."

"Okay," Pa said. "Is it your bad dreams that are making you so preoccupied with this?"

"I feel like something bad is going to happen," I admitted, words which sounded crazed even to my own ears. I longed to abandon the conversation. To silence myself or change the topic, but I had come too far to not to finish now. "Something terrible will happen," I added, believing the statement with every fiber of my soul. "I don't know what and I don't know when, but something is… building and growing and it's going to continue growing until it becomes too large and then it's going to finally explode."

"And what is going to happen when it does?"

"That, I don't know."

Pa was silent for a few moments, his face frozen with an emotion I couldn't quite place. "Do you want to know what I think?" he asked. His voice was a little too gentle, as though he was speaking to a terrified child; in a way, I suppose, he was. Despite my age, I was his child and there was no denying I was slightly afraid.

I nodded. "Yes."

"This situation with Ross has caused you some strain. The round up has been demanding; you're working from sun up to sun down and you're not sleeping well out here. I think you're tired and that tiredness is adding to your unease. Son, I think I might be best if you went home."

"What?"

"I want you to go home." Pa raised his hand as I opened my mouth to protest. "Just for tonight," he qualified. "We need supplies, and I'm delegating you to get them. Go home, Adam. Visit with Del. Take it easy, sleep in your own bed, and _relax_. In the morning, I am sure you will come to realize your bad feeling has passed."

Though I doubted the effectiveness of the orders, I did what I was told.

Xx

The ride home was a lonely and I took the trail slowly. I was not eager to return to Del. I didn't want to look her in the eyes and see the worry, guilt and concern she had displayed when I rescued her from Ross's abuse. I didn't want to comfort her when my own worries remained so determined never to calm.

I found her just as I expected her to be. Lonely, worried, and a little bit bored. She had cleaned the house in an effort to soothe herself—something I am sure Hop Sing did not perceive as kindly. He remained hidden away in his quarters and I wondered if he and she had quarreled over something as silly as chores. He took intense ownership over such things and she had never liked being unoccupied or still. It was a quality she and her husband had in common—a shared disposition which had made them so right for one another from the very beginning.

Ross never could stand still; he always had to be doing something. Dreaming up new plans and enacting them, or abandoning the past and present altogether in exchange for something new.

When I began to make my plans for college, Ross was busy plotting his own future. His brothers and father had died, leaving him responsible for their ranch, and when his ma died the spring before I would head East, he had become preoccupied with a different life than the one his family had left for him.

There was gold to be had in the Black Hills of the Dakotas; an excitement was building and he wanted to be a part of it. He intended to sell his family's land, travel across territorial lines, strike a claim, and build a new life.

I told him he was mad for entertaining the idea. Why would he want to abandon his family's legacy for the guaranteed hardships of such an unpredictable future? Though it was not as vast as the Ponderosa, the Marquette's land was sprawling, bountiful and beautiful. It didn't hold any gold, but it contained better things than that. Like the house he had grown up in, the trails he had rode with his brothers, and the wide-open spaces his father had taken him across as a young boy. There were memories upon that land, hints of the people who had left it behind, but maybe that was why he wanted to leave it. It was too large of a thing for one man to contend with on his own.

Ross had been intent on leaving. But the day he met Delphine his plans suddenly changed. He loved her from the moment he laid eyes on her. He was hers before a word was spoken between them.

_"__I'm gonna marry that girl," _he had declared, his eyes first setting on her as she loitered in front of the general store in Virginia City.

_"__What girl?" _I asked, my gaze wandering the thoroughfare.

_"__That girl."_

He nudged me with his shoulder and nodded at her. It was an action that did not go unnoticed by her. Noting his attention, she smiled at him and nodded back.

_"__There, you see?" _Ross declared. "_She feels it too."_

_"__Feels what?"_

_"__She wants to marry me."_

I sighed. It was a ludicrous notion—an all-too-hopeful thought on Ross's part. I had never seen the girl before and neither had he. They were strangers. How could they possibly want to marry without speaking or even standing next to each other first? All they had traded was a smile and nod from across the street. How could those two things equate to marriage or even love?

_"__Note this moment, my friend," _Ross said. _And my words. "That girl is gonna be my wife."_

_"__She doesn't look like the type to do well in mining camp," _I said flatly._ "She appears quite dainty from afar. Much too beautiful to be asked to cope with that kind of roughness, if you ask me. You marry a girl like that and relocated her to a camp full of coarse men, you're bound to invite trouble."_

He cast me a confused glance.

_"__Aren't those your plans?" _I asked. "_The very reason you and I came to town today. You were going to post your land for sale, remember? Then you were going to begin to gather equipment and rations for your travels north."_

His face slowly softened with recollection_. "Oh," _he said quietly. "_Yeah."_

I couldn't help the chuckle which escaped me. Maybe the boy really was in love. One fateful look at this girl had chased away his desires for the future he had so passionately planned.

_"__Unless, of course, you plan to marry her and then leave her behind," _I added. "_Although, I don't know why you would do that. Half the reason to marry is to enjoy the kind of companionship that accompanies marriage vows. Such a thing will not be possible from three territories away."_

_"__Yeah," _he agreed absently. "_That's a terrible idea. I would very much like to consummate those vows" _He glanced at her, then at me, and then looked at her once more. "_I'm gonna marry her," _he said firmly. "_In fact, I think I might ask her right now."_

_"__What?" _I laughed.

He didn't respond as he walked determinedly across the street. I watched as he introduced himself, then promptly dropped to one knee before her and asked the very question he said he would. They quickly became the primary focus of everyone around them as Del did not hesitate—not even for the briefest of moments—with her answer. Lips curling into a broad smile, she beamed at him and said yes.

It was the most outrageous thing I had ever seen. It was bizarre, astounding and extraordinary. Magical in a way. They married shortly after; I was Ross's best man. Del joined him on his family's ranch and he abandoned his plans for mining. With her by his side, he had found his new life.

Like Ross, Del had loved her husband from the moment she laid eyes on him from afar. She had loved and worried about him from the very moment they had met. And though they were experiencing their difficulties, neither her love or worry for him had ceased. With time and space needed between them, her stay at the Ponderosa had only intensified both feelings. The deepness of her love for him made her a forgiving wife; it left her longing for word on him, to see and speak to him for herself.

Like Pa advised, it wasn't prudent to rush such things. So, she and I took ride up the Butte; it was an idea I suggested to ease her worry; silently I hoped it would do the same for me. The ride helped both of us. It was nice to share each other's company beneath the afternoon sun. The beauty of the land always had a way of calming a man's worries; it had a way of reminding him to slow down, dismiss his troubles, and enjoy his surroundings. On top of the crest, awestruck as I gazed upon the stunning land extending for miles, I was reminded there was nowhere I needed to be more than where I already was.

Del and I returned to the ranch house with our worries eased. We enjoyed a quiet dinner and a companionable evening in front of the fireplace. We played four consecutive games of checkers and she bested me in each one, then I retired to my bedroom, leaving her alone with generous pour of brandy and her thoughts in front of the flickering embers of the dying fire.

My slumber was deep and dreamless; I awoke the next morning feeling more rested and hopeful than I had in days. I returned to camp in a jovial mood. The morning air was cool and crisp, coupled with the beams of the rising sun, it energized me and renewed my hope in the day before me and the ones that would come after. Rest and relaxation had done wonders; it eased my troubles and left the things with Del and Ross and I seem correctable and manageable.

Pa was right; time was a friend and sometimes people changed. But if Ross had changed once then he could change again. If current times were deemed worse then they could get better. With a woman like Del for a wife and a man like me for a best friend, Ross would have to improve. He would have no other choice, because both of us loved him and we would accept nothing less.

Coming upon Pa and my brothers around the campfire, I knew almost immediately the morning was destined to turn sour. Sheriff Coffee was in their company and it was not lost on me how he didn't immediately look me in the eyes.

It was Pa who explained that Ross had been stealing our cattle. His prosperity after changing his brand to the silver dollar had nothing to do with luck; he had purposely chosen the symbol because it allowed him eclipse our brand, leaving no evidence or suspicion behind. I couldn't understand why Ross would steal what Pa had tried to give him a little over a year ago. We had offered him cattle, when the black leg had all but devoured his herd. It wasn't quite charity and it wasn't quite far away from it either. If Ross was like a brother to me then he was another son to Pa; Pa had tried to help him in the same way he would have helped my brothers or myself.

Staring at Pa, I saw my own hurt and disappointment reflected in his eyes. Neither of us wanted to believe a truth that was suddenly so glaring; neither of us could answer the question which lingered in the thick air around us unasked. Why would Ross go through the trouble of changing his brand? Why would he steal now what he refused to take then?

"I gonna add to your troubles, Adam," I recall Sheriff Coffee saying, a serious statement I long to strike from my memory. "In fact, I'm going to just about kill you."

I knew Ross had developed a recent penchant for violence but I didn't know the extent. I knew he had beat Del and threaten others—including me. It was Ross who robbed the stage, killing the driver and the guards. Unbeknownst to the rest of us he had become someone else. Somehow, he had changed right in front of me, his odd behavior existing in plain sight, because I had believed he was just playing old games.

But this wasn't a game—at least not anymore. Wife beating and threatening people could be forgiven, eventually. Cattle rusting, robbery, and murder made the situation serious. It made it punishable by law, tall gallows, and carefully braided rope.

My stomach turned and my knees felt weak. I was certain I was going to be sick before joining Pa and the others and embarking on the inevitable. A trip to The Silver Dollar ranch was impeding; the sheriff would question Ross and take him into custody, confining him to a jail cell. Then there would be a request made for the presence of a circuit judge, a trial and a verdict, and gallows built for all to see.

It would all happen; still, something inside of me was insisting none of it would ever be.

Maybe it was hope, or sadness, or dread making me feel such a way. Maybe it was my familiarity of my best friend. I knew Ross was fighter. He wouldn't go easy; there would be no bringing him in. I knew that and Pa must have known it too, because he cast me a serious glance, gripped my shoulder, and told me to head home.

I thought about my dreams then, what both the Minister Joe and Doc had said, and I thought about the conversation with Pa the morning before. Was the devil inside of Ross or was he truly sick? Had something loosened his grip on reality, driven him toward this behavior and insane? If so, what could cause such a thing? What could save a man from himself? And what difference did any of it make?

Dead was dead; murder was wrong; and actions always came with consequences. Sane or not, Ross would be forced to live behind bars until he finally died—one way or another—because of what he had done.

I am ashamed to admit I had forgotten about Del until one of the hands made mention of her, and when he did, I swear I felt as though the very ground was crumbling beneath my feet. The last of my good feeling had gone; it was chased away by cold anxiety and fear. If Ross had already beat Del once, if he had already murdered someone, what was stopping him from doing either thing again? He knew where to find her and I had left her alone.

My ride home was quick and frantic. I think I knew before I left the camp that I was too late. I think I knew what I was going to find and what it was going to force me to do before I arrived home.

Busting through the front door of the house, I heard Del's voice, quiet and weak, from where she lay. I was too late. Ross had beaten the both of us, me to the house and her to the floor. He blackened her face and broke her neck, then abandoned her as she succumbed to her wounds alone. But she wasn't alone, not in the end. I was with her, holding her close as her chest finally fell and ceased to rise again.

I blamed myself for her death—I probably always will. It all seemed so preventable in hindsight. Had I just stayed home rather than left, had I delayed my return just a few hours more then she probably would have lived. It was my fault Del was at the Ponderosa; I bear responsibly for leaving her alone, unable to defend herself and anxious and longing to see her husband again. Full of nerves and excitement, she probably ran to him when he first showed up, expecting him to great her in a kindly way. She probably thought he had come to make things right between them. She probably didn't expect what he did.

Did any of us really expect it? For things to devolve so far? For Ross to quickly transform into what he became? Cattle rustler, stage robber, and murder?

These were the questions I latched on to, considering them obsessively to distract my mind from the activity of my hands. The handle of the rifle felt smooth against my skin, the bullets cold as I loaded my rounds.

As a boy, I had followed Ross and that day I followed him again. Past the river and towards the staggering and sloping rocks, across the steep landscape that stood tall and white against the vast blue sky. When I finally caught up with him, he had his riffle pointed at me. He didn't recognize me as a friend; in fact, he didn't recognize me at all.

I wanted to bring him home; I wanted to help him—Lord knows, I did. I kept looking at his damn riffle, aimed so expertly at my chest; I couldn't help hoping and praying that it could all be part of the game we had played for so many years. Maybe if I said the right thing then he would finally smile and concede. He would laugh at my fear and exclaim everything that had happened had been a part of some grand joke. I didn't want it to be real. I wanted him to smile and laugh, jubilantly declaring I should have seen the look on my face.

Hoping for a miracle, I abandoned my rifle on the ground when he told me to. I was shocked when he opened fire. They were pot-shots at first; bullets aimed with the intent of scaring me, I'm sure. Then one caught my upper-arm, igniting it with a searing pain, and I did what I had to do with little thought. Grabbing my side-arm, I aimed quickly, pulled the trigger, and watched my best friend fall on the ground.

While his bullets had been haphazard, mine had been aimed to wound, and it did its job a little too well. As with Del, I held him as he died. I agonized over what could have been—what should and shouldn't have been. Ross had become a wife beater, cattle rustler, stage robber, and murder, but I held him during those last few moments, I didn't see any of those things. I didn't see hints of the devil either, or the mysterious evil hold Minister Joe had suggested. I saw the boy I had grown up with, the one I had followed through the pines, into trouble and out of it; I saw my brother, the one from another family who everyone had once called my twin. I thought of us in our youth and everything we had once said.

_"__Does it ever stop hurting?" _he asked me after his Pa's death. "_Do you ever stop missing the people you lose?"_

_"__Not really," _I said. "_You just get used to not havin' them around."_

As a boy I answered the question, but as a man I knew the truth. The hurt never completely ebbed; you never really got used to life without the people you lost. A piece of your heart always longs to have them back.

_"__I don't believe in God," _Ross had declared as a youth.

_"__I want there to be a God," _I had said. "_Because then that way there's a heaven too."_

As Ross's breaths became labored, I wondered if this was a belief I still wanted to hold true. If there was a God then there was a heaven and there had to be devil and hell too. A place for sinners and evildoers to pay permanently for their mistakes. If there was a hell and heaven, then I didn't want to think about where Ross was headed. The devil may not have been in him but I wondered if God was. I wondered how harshly he was going to judge Ross for his recent sins and mistakes.

In his last moments Ross finally seemed to come to. Confusion and pain washed over his features and he said he didn't understand how or why he had come to have a bullet in his chest. It was just as well because I wasn't certain I comprehended it either.

I held him for a long while after he passed, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time.

Xx

It snowed the day we buried Del and Ross. It was an unseasonable kind of storm which blew down from mountains as we lay them rest next to each other. Standing with my shoulders squared, my back ridged and tall, I didn't move or cry. I'm not sure I even registered the cold. I overcome by guilt and shock to pay mind to anything else.

Pa and Hoss stood on next to me and Joe lingered on the other side of Pa. Our proximity was a bit closer than was normally allowed; I suspect if there hadn't been other people present then Hoss and Pa probably would have reached for my hands. It wouldn't have been allowed—under any circumstances—they both knew that.

They had both tried to talk to me, each at different times. Pa had tried to gage my grief and soothe the pain which had consumed my heart and soul. Hoss had tried his best to alleviate my guilt. Still, I remained tortured with quiet wonderings.

I wondered if I would ever get used to Ross being gone. If I would ever be able to forgive myself for not protecting Del from him or for being the person who killed him.

When the last bit of dirt had been placed on Ross and Del's respective graves, I found I could no longer tolerate remaining still. I turned around and I ran, seeking respite among those familiar snow-covered pines.

I ran until my legs threatened to give out beneath me and my chest felt like it was going to explode. My breath was coming in haggard gasps when I finally stopped, lingering in place before turning around. I don't know what I expected to see. I think I was still hoping for the punchline of the joke to finally become clear, for Ross to be standing behind me, a smile on his face as he declared the whole thing a farce.

When I discovered there was no one behind me, I couldn't contain my tears. Ross hadn't followed me. I would never follow him anywhere again. I had killed him; he was dead.

I cursed God for allowing such a thing to happen, for making me be the one to take Ross's life, then leaving me with so many questions and no discernable answers. I no longer knew what I wanted to believe or who had been right. If there was a heaven and a hell and God and devil. Or who had been right about Ross and his behavior: Minister Joe or Doc Martin. Or maybe both. Maybe insanity was a gift from the devil, bestowed to inspire and bring about horrible crime, pain, and sin.

There was nothing I could say to ease the pain of what had happened. There was nothing I could do to bring my best friend or his wife back. A tightness had settled in my chest. It felt as though someone was holding my heart, sporadically clenching and squeezing, awakening a deep, stinging sadness had seemed destined to never ebb or cease; it declared I would never recover from the events which had unfolded. I would never be able to reconcile the Ross I had grown up with to the actions of the man he had become before his death. I didn't know how I was going to accept and reconcile my own actions, or forgive myself for.

My brain knew my actions were defensible; I had done what I needed to survive. It was my heart that struggled to accept this truth. Ross was sick; he needed help and I had killed him. How could such a thing ever be deemed defensible or right?

I don't know how long I stood among those pines, screaming and sobbing and carrying on. When I finally ceased, I realized the snow had stopped falling and the sky was beginning to turn dark. Night was coming and I was alone. I wanted to be home then. I wanted the chill that had settled into my body to be chased away by the warmth of the fireplace. I wanted the turning of my stomach and throbbing of my heart be comforted by the smell of the tobacco burning in Pa's pipe and the chatter of my younger brothers as they argued over a game of checkers. I wanted to be surrounded by familiarly, distracted from my grief and thoughts. I wanted to be close to Pa, pretending not to notice his covert worried glances.

Using my sleeves to wipe the tears from my face, I put one foot in front of the other and numbly began the walk back. I didn't make it very far before I heard a voice call out from a short distance away.

"Hey, Adam."

I hesitated in place, my eyes searching for the source of the sound. Emerging from between the trees came Little Joe, his face slightly pink from the cold.

I wondered how long he had been there. If he had chased me until I stopped and if he had heard what I had done after. I wondered how such a display would make him feel, or how it would make me feel if I knew for certain he had seen it. Then I wondered why I cared so much. Why such a thing should be allowed matter anymore.

We were both men now; the experiences and complications of which were never spoken but always silently understood. Why did we always have to be brave and strong, feigning certainty about every one of our actions while harboring our pain and guilt? Joe was always better at emoting than I ever had been; his ability to allow himself to appear hurt and weak in front of our family with little care of how he was perceived was something I had always coveted.

"Did Pa send you?" I asked.

"No, Pa didn't send me." He shrugged in a chagrined manner. "He ordered the opposite, actually. He told us to give you some space."

"This is what you would consider space?"

"No, big brother," he said softly. "This isn't what I would call giving you space. I just… I know what Ross meant to you and I didn't want you to be alone. I wanted to make sure you made it home okay."

My brother's actions and statement touched me in a way I can't properly articulate, and I felt my eyes well with more tears.

"We should get going," Joe said. "We're already going to be heading home in the dark."

Not trusting my voice, I nodded. A moment ago, I had been alone, longing for the comfort and familiarity of home and now, appearing from the shadows, Joe was here to accompany me through the darkness which had seemed so threatening as it settled around me.

He didn't look at me as we traveled back to the cemetery. I am sure this was purposeful decision made in order to protect my pride. I am grateful to him for it, just as I am thankful the night settled quickly around us, disguising our faces as we walked.

It all ended with a thickness in my throat.

And this time, my tears were silent, reawakened by a warmth and comfort I felt in my younger brother's presence as I followed him home.

END


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